An Insensitive Sensitive
by Supervillegirl
Summary: John stumbles upon Sherlock's secret and takes a leaf out of Sherlock's book: experimenting. Wacky fun ensues!
1. Hypothesis and Research

An Insensitive Sensitive

 **Was browsing the internet the other day and thought that these 22 signs fit Sherlock only too well. Came up with a short little story. Website info from liveboldandbloom . com.**

* * *

Dr. John Watson hit the Post button, updating the latest entry on his blog. He and his flatmate Sherlock Holmes had just finished another case, and Sherlock had disappeared into his bedroom for his usual post-case coma. Served him right for starving and sleep-depriving himself throughout the duration of his cases. And now, it was time for John to indulge in his post-case activities after writing his blog: surfing the net.

Most of the time, he kept to medical websites to keep updated on new developments in medicine. But today, his mind was so spent that he really just wanted to wander some pointless sites until he got tired enough that he could head upstairs to sleep.

A couple boring websites grabbed his attention before a link inexplicably brought him to another. His eyes roamed over it as he prepared to search another one before a few choice words jumped out at him: _"must have alone time"_ and _"easily tell when someone is lying."_

Intrigued, John headed back up to the top of the article and read the title: _"Empath Traits: 22 Signs You Are a Highly Sensitive Person."_ John gave a chuckle, given who his insensitive flatmate was. Surprisingly, John read on.

" _Number one: People point it out. You've been told all your life you are too sensitive, overly emotional, or wear your heart on your sleeve. People tell you that you pick up on cues or feelings they don't even notice."_

John's mind niggled at him at that last sentence. It almost could have been describing Sherlock if it weren't for the fact that Sherlock acted more like a machine than an emotional teenager.

" _Number two: You feel other's feelings. You've noticed how sensitive you are to the emotions of others. Even before they tell you how they are feeling, you already know. You can enter a room and have a sense of the general mood of the environment."_

Again, almost Sherlock, but not quite.

" _Number three: Negativity overwhelms you. When others can tolerate raised voices, conflict, or anger, it sends you over the edge. You almost feel physically sick or in pain as a result of the negative energy around you. You crave peace and calm."_

John now gave a frown. It was true that Sherlock did tend to lash out at anyone being particularly rude to him. And his outbursts did tend to follow _someone's_ negative emotions, however slight, even if they were usually rants about how stupid everyone was.

John shook himself, unable to believe that he was trying to attribute these empathic characteristics to Sherlock. He was about to switch websites when the next point caught his attention.

" _Number four: Being in crowded places overwhelms you. You don't like being in malls, sporting events, airports or other public places with crowds of people. You feel suffocated and overly-excited. You can't wait to leave."_

Now that **definitely** sounded like Sherlock. Could it be true? Was Sherlock an empath, able to feel other people's emotions? It would explain why Sherlock distanced himself from everyone and why he hated emotions and sentiment.

 _My God, what am I thinking?_ John thought, shaking himself out of this ridiculous idea yet again.

" _Number five: Strong intuition. You seem to know things without being told. You sense what needs to be done or what's about to happen. Your gut feelings nearly always prove to be correct."_

Okay, that was absolutely and completely Sherlock. Maybe it really was true. It wouldn't really explain Sherlock's mental skills, but his behavior…

" _Number six: Pain intolerance. More than others you know, you have a lower threshold for pain tolerance. You can't stand getting shots, feeling nauseated, or dealing with a minor injury. You may even have had a doctor tell you to stop complaining so much."_

While it was true that Sherlock sometimes ignored his body's needs, he did have a tendency to be a big baby. And John **had** told him more than once to stop complaining.

" _Number seven: You must have alone time. You need time every day with no sensory input. You want to withdraw to your room or another quiet place to recharge."_

Ah, the secret behind the mind palace. Sherlock disappeared into his own mind more times than John could count.

" _Number eight: You avoid negative media images. You find it extremely disturbing to watch or read about tragic news events or see unpleasant images. It bothers you so much, you avoid looking at these images at all costs."_

That didn't really sound like Sherlock. Then again, given Sherlock's job, maybe he forces himself to endure those bad images. He delves into his sociopath label in order to ignore them. Maybe that was why he didn't really watch much telly outside his cases.

" _Number nine: You can easily tell when someone is lying. All you need to do is look at their faces or listen to their tone of voice, and you know instantly whether or not they are telling the truth."_

That one was a given. Sherlock wouldn't be the world's only consulting detective if he couldn't tell when someone was lying.

" _Number ten: You are more sensitive to stimulants/medications. Caffeine in particular makes you more anxious and agitated than the average person. You can never drink caffeine in the evening if you want to sleep. You often have reactions or side effects to medications."_

Was that the secret behind Sherlock's drug days? Had he gone undercover or tried to experiment and gotten addicted easier than others would have? It would also explain Sherlock's reaction to the hallucinogenic they experienced in Baskerville. Sure, John had reacted badly to the drug, but Sherlock…With how Sherlock's emotions were usually kept in check, Sherlock's reaction to the drug had been in the extreme.

" _Number eleven: You often show up with the symptoms of those around you. If someone close to you is sick or depressed, you will develop the same ailments."_

Now this, John didn't really notice, but then again, a lot of people get sick at the same time, and he never really paid attention close enough to notice any of that. Maybe he would have to start paying attention.

" _Number twelve: You frequently have lower back and digestive problems. These are the result of dealing with negative and stressful situations and people. Your feelings show up as these physical symptoms."_

No wonder Sherlock didn't eat much.

" _Number thirteen: You are the dumping ground for the problems of others. People around you seem to gravitate toward you and unload all of their pain and problems on you. Because you are an empath, you feel compelled to help, even to your own detriment."_

John had never known anyone to tell Sherlock their problems. In fact, most everyone knew that Sherlock was likely to be the cause of their problems, and they steered clear. Another reason for Sherlock's behavior towards people; he pushes them away so they won't unload on him.

" _Number fourteen: You often feel fatigued. Because others take so much from you, you often feel drained of energy and extremely tired. You might even have chronic fatigue syndrome."_

John knew for a fact that Sherlock didn't suffer at all from fatigue. In fact, it was quite the opposite.

 _Nicotine patches,_ John thought.

Was that why Sherlock used so many nicotine patches? To keep himself from growing fatigued?

" _Number fifteen: You have a very vibrant inner life. You are highly creative, imaginative, and loving—"_

 _Ha! Loving!_ John thought.

" _You may be involved in the arts or other creative pursuits. You feel close to animals and especially enjoy your relationship with your pets."_

Sherlock did play the violin. And he had spoken of his childhood dog Redbeard fondly. And John had to admit that Sherlock did indeed have a _vibrant_ personality.

" _Number sixteen: You are sensitive to sounds and sensory feelings. Loud noises or sudden dramatic movements startle you. You also feel overwhelmed by bright lights, rough fabrics, and strong smells. You also notice very delicate smells, touch, and sounds."_

Ah, Sherlock's love of designer suits. John always believed Sherlock just had a sophisticated taste—and that may be a big part of it—but it was possible that Sherlock also bought designer clothes so that he could be comfortable in his own skin.

And this also explained how Sherlock was able to draw clues from apparently thin air. He was sensitive to smells, touch and sounds. Of course, he would be able to pick up clues easier than a bloodhound.

" _Number seventeen: You don't like too many things at once. When you have to multi-task or have too much coming at you at once, you feel rattled and overwhelmed."_

That triggered something in John's memory, the memory of the first day he had spent at Baker Street.

 _Sherlock paced in the living room as Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade and his team searched for drugs. John stood at the door with their landlady Mrs. Hudson._

 _Sherlock suddenly stopped with his back to the door and shouted furiously. "Shut up, everybody! Shut up! Don't move, don't speak, don't breathe! I'm trying to think. Anderson, face the other way. You're putting me off."_

" _What?" said Dr. Phillip Anderson. "My face is?"_

" _Everybody, quiet and still," said Lestrade. "Anderson, turn your back."_

" _Oh, for God's sake!" exclaimed Anderson._

" _Your back, now, please!" said Lestrade sternly._

" _Come on, think," Sherlock told himself. "Quick!"_

" _What about your taxi?" asked Mrs. Hudson._

 _Sherlock turned to her and shouted furiously. "MRS. HUDSON!"_

Sherlock had been able to think properly with all the chaos and sensory input in the room. He had needed to trim things down to concentrate.

" _Number eighteen: You manage your environment. You create your living and working environment to accommodate your sensitivities. You arrange your schedule and commitments to avoid unpleasant, chaotic, or overly stimulating situations."_

Well, Sherlock did love to manage…everything. And he certainly did arrange schedules; maybe not his own, but he did love to interrupt John's plans. And if any living environment was an extension of Sherlock, it was Baker Street.

" _Number nineteen: You don't like narcissists."_

Now that was ironic. Sherlock **was** a narcissist.

" _You are particularly bothered by people who put themselves first all the time and aren't sensitive to the feelings of others. You may even believe there's something wrong with you or that you have some kind of emotional disorder."_

John stared at the screen, his mind reeling.

" _I'm not a psychopath, Anderson. I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research."_

That was the reason behind Sherlock's label as a sociopath. Did he really believe there was something wrong with him? John would just have to convince him otherwise.

" _Number twenty: You can almost feel the days of the week. Each day of the weeks has a specific 'feel' to it. You notice when a Wednesday feels like a Saturday. You feel particularly heavy at the start of the work week. Even months and seasons have a particular feel."_

John would have no way to knowing this one. Next!

" _Number twenty-one: You are a great listener."_

John almost laughed out loud at that one. Now, this he had to see.

" _People tell you this all the time. You listen consciously and know the right questions and comments to draw people out and make them feel heard."_

Well, not everyone was perfect. Twenty-one out of twenty-two wasn't bad.

" _Number twenty-two: You get bored easily."_

Oh, now, didn't this one fit to a tee!

" _As an empathy, you need to focus on work and activities that stimulate your creativity and passion. If you get bored, you resort to daydreaming, doodling, etc."_

 _Shooting the walls…_ John thought.

" _However, you are still very conscientious and try hard to avoid making mistakes."_

It was true; Sherlock didn't really make mistakes and when he did, he overworked himself to make it right.

So, was this really true? Was Sherlock an empath? It wasn't that hard to imagine; he had heard of stranger things before. Then again, Sherlock did love to point out that John jumped to conclusions. Well, he would just have to be sure, then, wouldn't he?

Operation Empath had begun.


	2. Observation and Experimentation

Chapter Two

 **The case John tells Molly was taken from "The Adventure of the Creeping Man" by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I own nothing but my plot.**

* * *

 _Step one: Observe Sherlock in his natural environment._

Good Lord, he was starting to sound like Sherlock. He would be proud. Nevertheless, John needed to observe Sherlock first before actually doing anything. Thankfully, Scotland Yard had called them in on a case only a couple days after having read that website.

John tried hard not stare at Sherlock, knowing that his friend would know if something was up if he did so. Instead, John took to stealing peeks out of the corner of his eye, watching closely for any signs of what he had read on the internet. So far, Sherlock was the same aloof detective he had always known. Then again, Sherlock was pretty schooled in the art of hiding behind his mask of indifference. Perhaps there really was a profound soul underneath all that mind.

The taxi came to a stop, and Sherlock jumped out, heading straight for the crime scene nearby and conveniently "forgetting" to pay.

John rolled his eyes as he fetched his wallet. _Or not._

After tossing some money up to the cabbie, John hurried after his friend, reaching him just as Sherlock reached the crime scene.

"Where?" Sherlock asked.

Lestrade turned from where he had been talking to his officers. "Over here." He began leading Sherlock down the alley as John followed.

John took this opportunity to train his eyes on Sherlock, watching every move and gesture. So far, the detective was giving nothing away. Either John's hypothesis was wrong or Sherlock was just a very good actor.

Then came Anderson and Donovan.

They had entered the back of the alley, where officials were gathered around a body on the pavement. Two of those officials were the two people who most disliked Sherlock in probably all of London.

"Oh, God…" Donovan mumbled, turning away from them as they approached.

John's eyes narrowed in on Sherlock, who showed no reaction whatsoever. At least, to anyone else. John, however, knew him too well to miss the brief flinch of his shoulders. Whether it was due to Donovan's comment or the surge of her emotions, John couldn't tell yet. He stepped up next to Sherlock, watching the interaction between the three of them.

Anderson, meanwhile, had turned towards Sherlock and edged in front of him, almost as though to block the crime scene from him. "We don't need you. We've already solved this one."

"Oh, have you?" said Sherlock, locking his hands together behind his back and straightening up to use his height against Anderson.

"Yes," said Anderson, straightening up himself but not quite able to meet Sherlock's height. "It's _obvious_ —" he sneered the word mockingly at the detective, "that this woman jumped to her death from the building there." He jabbed his thumb back towards the five story building behind him.

"Hmm, obvious," muttered Sherlock, his eyes darting to the body once and then back to Anderson. "Yes, a woman about to kill herself would definitely wear her most expensive dress and heels to do so."

"What does it matter how she's dressed?" asked Anderson, his voice rising in frustration. "Anything could have happened to make her jump!"

John looked closely at Sherlock, watching his jaw clench as he closed his eyes briefly. Fighting off Anderson's frustration maybe?

"A woman having undergone a trauma depressing and upsetting enough to cause her to kill herself would typically leave her crying," Sherlock rattled off quickly. "However, her mascara has not run. Unless she was wearing waterproof mascara—the brand she is wearing is not, in fact, waterproof—she has **not** been crying. Conclusion: someone caught her off guard and killed her." He then brushed past Anderson and went for the body, kneeling next to it.

"Maybe she just didn't cry," Anderson suggested pathetically.

"What suicidal person have you ever seen that didn't shed a tear?" Sherlock muttered.

"Then how do you explain the broken bones?" asked Anderson, getting his wind back. "They're consistent with—"

"A five story fall, yes," muttered Sherlock, pulling out his magnifier and looking closely at her nails, face and clothing.

"Well, then, there you go," said Anderson smugly, crossing his arms.

"Oh, use your imagination, Anderson," said Sherlock. "Just because she fell from the roof doesn't mean she did so before she died."

"So, now, they threw her off the roof," said Anderson, clenching his jaw in irritation.

John watched as Sherlock also clenched his jaw, almost at the same time.

"To cover up her murder," snarled Sherlock. "I won't bother explaining it to you."

Anderson _humphed_ and strode away towards Donovan, probably to bad-mouth Sherlock. Sherlock winced a little and switched positions so that his back was straighter.

"You okay?" asked John, watching him closely.

"Fine, John," Sherlock brushed off.

" _You frequently have lower back problems. Your feelings show up as these physical symptoms."_

John smirked as Sherlock finally stood rolling his shoulders slightly as he began pacing the body.

Sherlock paused a moment, frowning, and then glanced at John. "What?"

John shook his head, still smiling slightly. "Nothing."

Sherlock looked him up and down—possibly confused by the delight he was feeling from John?—before going back to the body, probably writing it off as John being satisfied by Anderson being told off.

* * *

 _Step two: Observe Sherlock out of his natural environment._

Now that John was sure he was right about Sherlock, it was time to actually test his hypothesis. But how to do that. It's not like he could force a particular emotion to see if it rubbed off on his friend. Then, there was the whole "showing up with the physical symptoms of those around you" thing. He couldn't exactly injure himself or bring on an illness. But perhaps…

Sherlock answered the phone on the fourth ring. "What?"

"Hey, I'm sorry to pull you away from doing absolutely nothing," said John, "but I forgot my wallet."

"So?" said Sherlock, sounding bored at the interruption.

"So, I need you to bring it to me," said John.

"No," said Sherlock. "Pay them back tomorrow."

"Sherlock, this isn't about having money for lunch," said John. "I left my access card in it. I can't get into the medical supply closet without it."

Sherlock breathed out an annoyed sigh.

"Please?" John tried, knowing Sherlock would turn it down.

"Surely someone else will lend you theirs," Sherlock argued back. "You've worked there long enough, and you're a naturally trustworthy person."

Smiling in victory, John sighed for effect and then delivered the winning deal. "I will let you do any experiments you want for the next week."

 _One…two…three…_

"I'll be there in twenty minutes," said Sherlock, immediately hanging up.

John smiled and set his phone down. He knew Sherlock would take the bait; he never could resist a good experiment. And with John's knack of putting those experiments to an end, Sherlock was dying for John's okay on it. Sherlock had fallen for it hook, line and sinker.

It was the usual busy Saturday: children with colds, teenagers with scrapes or broken bones, adults with concussions or in need of stitches. It was the perfect—or imperfect, in this case—environment for an empath. Now to see if these injuries and illnesses rubbed off on Sherlock.

John headed out into the main area of the clinic. Usually, he worked in his office by appointment, but on Saturdays, the place was so busy that they just worked in the waiting area to treat patients by injury; the most critical first. Which was another reason John had chosen a Saturday. It would mean Sherlock would have to meet John with the patients around instead of isolated in his office.

John was in the middle of stitching a deep cut on a young man's hand—which he had timed to work on at just the right time—when the consulting detective showed up. John glanced up as Sherlock strode through the doors and straight towards him. As he passed a woman cradling her crying child—simple head cold, most likely an ear infection—he winced slightly and brought a hand to the bridge of his nose, pinching it. Shaking it off, Sherlock brought his hand back down and continued on his way.

Sherlock stuck his hand in the pocket of his Belstaff and pulled out John's wallet, brandishing it at him as he reached him. "Here."

"Hang on, Sherlock," said John with a slight touch of irritation for effect, pulling the thread tighter before bringing the needle back to the patient's hand. "My hands are kind of full right now."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and proceeded to set the wallet down on the gurney.

"No, hang on!" John raised his voice slightly to get Sherlock to stop on his way back out the door. "Don't just leave it there! I'm almost done!"

Sherlock sighed and came back, picking the wallet back up and standing there impatiently.

"Is he okay?" asked the guy.

"He's fine," said John shortly. He glanced over at Sherlock to see him tense and trying to hide inside his coat.

The color seemed to be slightly draining from Sherlock's face as he glanced at various injured or sick people around him out of the corner of his eye. A woman coughed violently in the next gurney over—bronchitis—and Sherlock flinched, clearing his throat. A man with a minor case of food poisoning at the other end of the room suddenly vomited in the trash can the doctor had given him as he recovered in a hospital bed. Sherlock's throat worked violently as his face paled, and he unconsciously placed a hand on his stomach.

John looked back at his patient, tying off the last stitch and cutting the thread. He then put the scissors, suture needle and needle holder down on the instrument tray. He then picked up a roll of gauze and started wrapping it around his hand. "All right, I want you to keep the bandages and stitches dry. You can tape a plastic bag around it for your showers. If you notice any red streaks around the wound or you get a fever higher than 37.8, then it's probably infected. Call me if that happens."

Sherlock sighed impatiently, but John ignored him in favor of instructing his patient on how to care for his wound. As soon as the patient was gone, Sherlock held out the wallet to him once again, practically shoving it into his hand.

John did a double-take, frowning at him. "You okay? You look a bit peaky."

"You know I hate crowds," said Sherlock, shoving the wallet towards him again.

"Dr. Watson," a nurse called from across the emergency room.

"Coming," John called back, accepting the wallet. He took another look at Sherlock, seeing bags under his eyes and starting to feel guilty about putting him in this situation.

" _You often feel fatigued. Because others take so much from you, you often feel drained of energy and extremely tired."_

"Go home and sleep," John told him, physically turning him around and walking him towards the door. "Do **not** do any experiments when you get there."

"John—" began Sherlock, about to remind him of their deal.

"I will not include this as one of your experiment days," John told him. " **Go**. **Sleep**."

Sherlock nodded, apparently too tired to argue. He walked gratefully through the doors, but not before one last rub of his head as he passed a patient with a bandage around his head.

* * *

 _Step three: See if Sherlock is limited to only negative emotions._

John followed Sherlock into the morgue, where Dr. Molly Hooper was standing over the victim they were investigating.

Molly glanced up and smiled nervously at Sherlock. "Sherlock, hi! John!"

A smile quickly appeared on Sherlock's face before he schooled himself, the smile slipping back away. "Molly. Mr. Hawcourt ready?"

"Ready and waiting," smiled Molly widely, fumbling a little as she put her chart away and moved around to give Sherlock room.

John watched as Sherlock stepped up to the table, leaning over to examine the body. He noticed that Sherlock's hands were shaking in Molly's nervousness, and he took a steadying breath, his hands stilling, before continuing.

"Forty-two, bad case of food poisoning," said Molly. "He had eaten at the restaurant on Oxford Street that received a bad shipment of meat contaminated with Listeria. Accidental death."

"Hmm," muttered Sherlock, eyes pouring over the body. "Quite right. Accidental food poisoning."

"Shall I call Greg?" asked Molly.

Sherlock frowned and looked up at her questioningly.

"Lestrade," John supplied.

Sherlock's eyes tracked over to him before looking back down at the body. "If you wish." His eyes narrowed as he spotted something on the man's chest. "May I have a moment? He has the most fascinating example of split-level thickness graft I have seen in years."

"Of course," said Molly, heading over to the chart on the table to finish it.

John stepped over towards her, having several conversations prepared for her to get a rise out of Sherlock. "So…any plans this weekend?"

"Oh, nothing special," said Molly. "You?"

"Well, if we don't manage to get called in on a case, I'm planning to go visit my sister," John told her.

"Oh, how is she?" asked Molly.

John shrugged. "She's better. Still drinking, but at least she's limiting it to once a week now. It's…something."

"Yeah, that's something," said Molly, laying a hand on John's shoulder.

Sherlock shifted in his position by the examination table, subtly clearing his throat.

"Any interesting cases lately?" asked Molly, changing the subject.

John laughed. "Oh, yeah. This guy came to the flat, saying that his boss, Professor Presbury, was acting odd—crawling around his home, his dog suddenly attacking him, temper outbursts. And when we went to meet him—" he chuckled, "that's not something I'm likely to forget soon. Turns out, Presbury had been taking an experimental rejuvenation drug taken from monkeys."

Molly burst into laughter at that, and John laughed with her, his eyes trailing off to the side towards Sherlock. The detective was on the other side of the table now, his profile in full view. Sherlock had an amused smile on his face, trying to stifle a laugh and almost failing. John quickly looked back at Molly before either of them became suspicious.

"A monkey?" giggled Molly. "That's ridiculous!"

"Yeah…" laughed John.

Sherlock suddenly straightened up from his examination, all business now. "If you two will excuse me, I need to think." He then beat a hasty retreat out the morgue doors.

"What's with him?" asked Molly.

"Don't mind him," said John. "He's just been a bit…moody lately."

Molly scoffed at him. "Moody? Sherlock?" She headed over to the body, going back to work.

John smiled and headed out after Sherlock, muttering under his breath. "Moody indeed."

It looks like Operation Empath was a success. Now, he just had to tell Sherlock.

"Oh, this will be easy," grumbled John.


	3. Analysis and Conclusion

Chapter Three

 **Whew! These just keep getting longer and longer!**

 **I had planned on this being a three chapter story, but it looks like it's going to be four chapters, so stay tuned!**

* * *

Sherlock opened his eyes to the early morning light in his bedroom. He had crashed after the investigation into Jeremy Hawcourt's fatal food poisoning, even though there was no real investigation. He had only needed to look over his body once before solving it. Well, Molly had solved it, too; he had only backed up her findings. But considering the emotional overload he had endured yesterday through John and Molly (and a few other people on the streets), he figured his body needed to recharge. Besides, he didn't really get this opportunity during his cases.

Sherlock reached his hand over to pick up his mobile on the bedside table, frowning as he felt some paper against his fingers. He raised his head as he brought the phone in front of him, finding a Post It stuck to it. He removed it and read what was written on there.

 **1\. People point it out.**

Sherlock frowned, recognizing the handwriting as John's. Why had he done this? The note didn't make any sense. Sherlock shook his head, dismissing the whole thing and not giving it a second thought.

Until he opened his wardrobe for clothes.

Another Post It was tacked onto the mirror on the inside of the wardrobe's door. Once again, it was John's handwriting.

 **22\. You get bored easily.**

Sherlock frowned, staring at the note. Was John writing up complaints about him? This was an odd way of addressing flatmate issues. Sherlock huffed and crumpled the note up, tossing it across the room. He reached into the wardrobe and pulled out a suit and shoes for the day. He then walked over ot his dresser and open his sock drawer. Right on the top was another Post It.

 **18\. You manage your environment.**

 _Seriously, what the bloody hell?_

Sherlock crumpled this note up as well and tossed it over to join the other two. Laying his clothes for the day on his bed, he then turned towards the door to the adjoining bathroom, finding yet another note on it.

 **19\. You don't like narcissists.**

Sherlock huffed out an annoyed breath and ignored the note.

It was clear by now that John was going down some kind of list, out of order, it would seem, in order to make a point. Whether that point was to tell Sherlock to straighten himself out or not, he had no clue. John had never had a problem with him like this before. He would just have to wait for the other eighteen Post Its, since John wasn't currently in the flat; that much he could feel. The flat was mercifully devoid of alien emotions. And accordingly to the frequency of the other Post Its already, his answer would not be long in coming.

Sherlock stepped into the bathroom, closing the door that led to the hall and turning to relieve himself. He then moved to the sink to wash his hands, finding another Post It on the wall right above the faucet.

 **5\. Strong intuition.**

That one didn't really sound like a complaint so much as a statement of fact. Was that what this was about? Telling Sherlock what he was like? That didn't make any sense. Whatever John's point was, it was eluding him.

Sherlock stripped out of his pajamas and turned towards the shower, finding another Post It on the shower curtain.

 **9\. You can easily tell when someone is lying.**

Sherlock unconsciously filed that away and went about his morning hygiene routine, finding another two notes while brushing his teeth and shaving.

 **3\. Negativity overwhelms you.**

 **4\. Being in crowded places overwhelms you.**

Sherlock could feel something niggling at the back of his mind, as though he knew the reason behind this, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he turned towards the door to his room, discovering a Post It on the inside of the bathroom door that led to the hallway.

 **16\. You are sensitive to sounds and sensory feelings.**

Sherlock stared at that one for a moment before stepping through the door to his bedroom. Once he was dressed in his pressed pants, crisp dress shirt and dressing gown, he headed out into the kitchen, disappointed to see that John had not made tea that morning. Then again, he had apparently been busy with other things.

Sherlock turned towards the fridge, finding another note on the door.

 **17\. You don't like too many things at once.**

Sherlock shook his head and opened the fridge to grab the milk and set it on the counter. Turning towards said counter to grab the tea kettle, he spotted a Post It stuck to it as well.

 **7\. You must have alone time.**

Sherlock grabbed the kettle and filled it with water in the sink, putting it on the stove to heat. He pulled open one of the kitchen cupboards to pull out the tea, spotting a Post It stuck to the tea shelf.

 **6\. Pain intolerance.**

Sherlock frowned at that one, not really understanding where it fit in with the rest of them. Then again, the first note had said "People point it out." That one made even less sense.

Sherlock pulled the tea out, setting it next to the milk. He then moved to another cabinet to get a cup and saucer. Another note was placed on the saucer.

 **15\. You have a very vibrant inner life.**

Okay, this was starting to get a little strange. Since when did anyone think he had a "vibrant inner life"? That didn't make any sense whatsoever. He worked **very** hard to project a calm, collected and cold exterior. It would take Sherlock himself to deduce who he really was. Well, maybe Mycroft, but he already knew.

Sherlock finally had his tea prepared, and he turned towards the sitting room to enjoy it, finding that John had closed the siding doors that separated the kitchen and sitting room. And, of course, there was a note there.

 **10\. You are more sensitive to stimulants/medications.**

Well, that wasn't really any secret. John **knew** about his drug history. Was he getting ready to write a biography or something? Seriously.

Sherlock slid the doors open and stepped over to his chair, finding a Post It on the backrest.

 **12\. You frequently have lower back and digestive problems.**

Sherlock froze and stared at that one, frowning in confusion. How had John spotted that? Maybe he had finally learned the art of deduction from Sherlock's refusal to eat during cases. Well, good on John. He'll have to remember to congratulate him later…if he remembers.

Sherlock sat down in his chair, enjoying his tea before he continued with this bizarre scavenger hunt. He paused suddenly, having spotted something out of the corner of his eye. Glancing up at the mirror above the fireplace, he saw the Post It John had placed there. Sherlock rolled his eyes, placing his tea on the table next to him and climbing to his feet to go read it.

 **14\. You often feel fatigued.**

Well, that one was no mystery. Sherlock kept himself awake for days on end during his cases. Then again, he wouldn't exactly use the word "often." Sherlock was usually a bundle of energy, bouncing off the walls and unable to rest. Had John gotten confused here?

Sherlock peeled the Post It off the mirror and tossed it into the fireplace, turning to the dining table by the windows and opening his laptop to check his emails. Taped to the screen was another note.

 **8\. You avoid negative media images.**

That's when the worry began. There was no possible way for John to know that. John always saw him pouring over newspapers and media websites, searching for crimes for him to solve. Sure, it bothered him, but he couldn't let anyone in on that. He was a consulting detective, for God's sake! How would it look if he refused to deal with negative images?

How had John figured that out?

Slamming the laptop shut, he jumped to his feet and strode towards his violin, his refuge when things became too much. Except today.

A Post It was stuck to the lower bout of his violin.

 **13\. You are the dumping ground for the problems of others.**

How? _How_?

Sherlock glanced around, wondering if maybe Mycroft was messing with him. But it was impossible. Even if Mycroft had tried to imitate John's handwriting, he never could have gotten it completely perfect. This was totally and completely John.

 _What was John playing at?_

As he turned back around, another something yellow caught his eye. A Post It was stuck to the window. Sherlock brushed the curtain aside to read it.

 **20\. You can almost feel the days of the week.**

This wasn't right. Something wasn't right. He still wasn't quite there; the truth was still somehow eluding him. But he could tell something was there, something that he should be worried about. He had to get out of here.

Sherlock dropped his violin into his chair and hurried to the door to the flat, pushing it away from the wall to grab his coat from the hook on the back of it. He rushed to pull the coat on, snatching the scarf from it and finding a Post It on the door underneath it.

 **11\. You often show up with the symptoms of those around you.**

Sherlock's eyes widened slightly at those words. It was there. It was right there, and—perhaps out of shock—he couldn't quite get it. John knew something; he knew something and this was his way of telling Sherlock. But what could it be? What was there about Sherlock that John didn't already know?

And just as his mind latched onto the answer, his hand brushed against a piece of paper stuck to the inside of his coat sleeve.

Sherlock reached into his left sleeve with his right hand, pulling the Post It out. He held it for a moment, hoping beyond hope that it wasn't true. Finally, he brought the note up and read it, his hand shaking.

 **2\. You feel other's feelings.**

Sherlock's heart stopped in his chest. It wasn't possible. It simply wasn't possible. John was a practical being; he would never entertain such a ridiculous notion, let alone one so spot on. How had he figured out—How had he— _How!_

Sherlock bolted out the door, tearing down the stairs and through the front door.

* * *

Sherlock burst through the doors of his brother Mycroft's office, marching right up to the desk.

"How can I help you, Sherlock?" said Mycroft in a bored tone, not even looking up from his work.

Sherlock slammed his hands down onto the edge of Mycroft's desk, leaning into Mycroft's space. "What have you done?"

Mycroft looked up at him, taken aback slightly by Sherlock's furious face. "Whatever do you mean?"

"John," Sherlock bit off.

Mycroft let a frown cross his face as his hand clenched slightly. "I have no idea to what you are referring."

"You have not been talking with John," said Sherlock, having calmed down.

"Of course not," said Mycroft, leaning back in his chair. "I am far too busy to entertain your friends."

Sherlock spun away from the desk. "Then how did he figure it out? How?!"

"And what has John figured out, Sherlock?" asked Mycroft, smirking.

Sherlock turned towards him, eyes narrowed. "You know." He walked towards the desk again. "You know he knows!"

"Sherlock—" began Mycroft.

"Why haven't you told me?" Sherlock shouted.

"He seemed determined to tell you himself," said Mycroft.

"How did he figure it out?" Sherlock demanded yet again.

"I suggest you go find out," said Mycroft, going back to his work.

Sherlock turned to leave the office.

"Oh, and Sherlock?" said Mycroft, not looking up.

Sherlock stopped and looked back at him.

"You might want to keep a lid on those outbursts from now on if you wish to keep your secret," said Mycroft.

Sherlock frowned. "What are you talking about?"

Mycroft looked up at him. "It appears that your gift is capable of transmitting as well as receiving."

Sherlock stared at him. "You were…feeling my emotions?"

"Indeed," said Mycroft. He gave Sherlock a look. "Perhaps you can put that to good use."

Sherlock stared at his brother as he went back to his work, looking at the floor for a moment before leaving.

* * *

Sherlock slowly made his way up the stairs, feeling a jolt of anticipation running through him and not able to tell if it was him or John. When he finally reached the first floor landing, he stepped quietly through the door, standing at the threshold and staring at the doctor sitting in his armchair in front of the fireplace reading a newspaper.

"So, had a good morning, did we?" said John, not taking his eyes off of the paper.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, confused by what he was getting from John. There wasn't revulsion or hatred or even fear. There was only amusement. "How?"

"I'm not as stupid as you think," said John, lowering the newspaper and folding it up. "I am capable of putting two and two together." He turned and offered a wry smile to Sherlock.

Sherlock was still standing at the door, staring at him.

John cocked his head towards Sherlock's armchair. "Take a seat." He set the newspaper on the side table and locked his fingers together, waiting.

Sherlock finally took an unsteady step forward, stepping over to his chair and sitting down across from John. They stared at each other for a long while before Sherlock spoke again.

"How?"

"Came across an interesting website, a lot of the characteristics fit you, so I did a little experiment," John explained.

The shock faded for a moment in lieu of his amusement. "Experiment? You?"

John shrugged. "Eh, you rubbed off on me."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "That's why you made me bring you your wallet. It was a test."

"Yeah, sorry about that," John told him. "Had to be sure."

"Hmm," said Sherlock, crossing his arms. "What else was a test?"

"Well, first I watched how you behaved at a crime scene," said John. "Anderson seemed to work you up quite a bit."

Sherlock shrugged. "Nothing out of the ordinary."

"Yes, but now that I knew what to look for, it was quite obvious," said John. "Your behavior was always based on how you reacted to those around you. Then, it was the wallet. I had to see if it was true about the illness thing. And last but not least—"

"Molly," said Sherlock.

John nodded. "I told Molly that story of the case to see if her hilarity rubbed off on you."

Sherlock nodded in approval. "Clever." He lowered his hands to the armrests, avoiding John's eyes.

John sighed. "Sherlock, this doesn't change anything."

Sherlock looked back at him, frowning.

"Just because there's something special about you doesn't make you any different," said John. "You're still you."

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, delving into that amused enjoyment he felt. There was nothing negative there whatsoever. John was telling the truth.

Sherlock shook his head, looking down at the floor. "You're never going to change, are you?"

John frowned, taken aback by the statement.

"You're still the most loyal and trustworthy friend a person could have," said Sherlock, looking up at him with a grateful smile.

John paused, smiling back as he cleared his throat. "So, where'd you run off to in such a hurry that you left your dressing gown on?"

Sherlock frowned and looked down to see that he was indeed wearing his dressing gown underneath his coat. He chuckled as he looked back up at John. "Mycroft's."

"You thought he told me, didn't you?" asked John.

Sherlock nodded. "I did. And the visit wielded some… _interesting_ results."

"Interesting?" asked John.

"I…gave Mycroft my anger," said Sherlock.

John's eyes widened. "You can do that?"

"Apparently," said Sherlock. "Never been able to do it before."

"Well, that's something," said John.

"What is?" asked Sherlock.

"A way for you to unload," said John.

"Unload…" said Sherlock.

"Yeah, when it gets to be too much, you can dump it on me," said John.

Sherlock's brows rose.

"Within reason," said John, raising a hand. "Don't go pouring it all on me."

"You would really do that for me?" asked Sherlock.

"Of course," said John. "You need to be able to take a break from it, right?"

Sherlock looked down at his lap for a moment before looking into the fireplace. "There are times where I can't even tell what I'm feeling is real or not. Sometimes, I don't know who I am anymore."

"Then let me help," said John.

Sherlock looked up at him, contemplating it for a moment before nodding. "Okay."

John smiled at him before clearing his throat awkwardly and looking away.

"How did you know?" asked Sherlock.

John frowned and then looked at him. "I'm sorry?"

"How did you know I would find those in order?" asked Sherlock. "They very obviously led up to that last statement. How did you do it?"

John chuckled. "Sherlock, we've been flatmates for years. I think I know your morning routine by now."

Sherlock smiled at him. "Good. You're improving." He steepled his hands in front of him. "By the way, what was number twenty-one?"

"Sorry?" asked John.

"Your notes had twenty-two points, but there were only twenty-one Post Its," said Sherlock. "What was number twenty-one?"

"'You're a great listener,'" said John, giving him a grin.

Sherlock chuckled. "Well, no one's perfect."

John laughed as he got up to order them some lunch.


	4. Tension and Relief

Chapter Four

It had taken a few days to get used to it. Sherlock would still try to hide anything empath-related from John before remembering that he knew. John would look forward to Mrs. Hudson's visits, watching Sherlock the whole time to see their landlady's jubilant attitude rubbing off on him.

There was even a visit from Mycroft, mostly trying to threaten John about what would happen if he told anyone about Sherlock. Not that it worked; Mycroft had stopped unnerving John about ten seconds after he had first met him.

But the verbal sparring match was interesting to watch. The more Mycroft pressed Sherlock, the more Sherlock pressed back. It made John wonder: if Sherlock hadn't been born with this empath gift, would he just be a mild-mannered member of society?

That was also the day the two of them had come up with a signal for the both of them. Any time Sherlock felt the emotions becoming too much, or if John sensed that Sherlock needed a break, then one of them would quietly clear their throat and then scratch at the front of their shirt right over their heart. Sherlock had thought it a bit cliché, but hadn't been able to come up with anything better or more subtle. So, the signal had stuck.

They had practiced this unloading of emotions a couple times in the privacy of Baker Street so that the first time in public wouldn't raise any eyebrows. After all, how would that look if John suddenly staggered under the weight of Sherlock's gift? This was meant to be inconspicuous.

And now, they were headed to their first crime scene after coming clean to each other.

Sherlock and John walked into the crime scene, approaching the group of officers gathered in the middle of the room. One of them turned around, and John almost rolled his eyes.

"Ah, freak's here," said Donovan, crossing her arms as she faced them.

John practically felt Sherlock's minute shudder next to him.

Anderson turned around and glared at Sherlock. "We've already solved it. We don't need you."

"Lestrade's text would seem to disagree," said Sherlock, striding right through the officers to investigate what they were standing around.

A few of the other officers—the ones that actually respected the detective—eased back to give him room. Sherlock knelt down over whatever was on the floor, and John eased around to the other side to have a look. It was a bloody shirt with several jagged slices in it. Sherlock had his magnifying glass out and was looking at the bloody holes.

The sound of crying came to them, and John glanced up to see that a woman was sitting in the corner, being consoled by an officer as she cried.

John eased over to Lestrade. "Who is she?"

"The wife," said Lestrade. "She found the shirt and hasn't been able to locate her husband."

John looked down at Sherlock, who was frowning at the body. John stepped closer and knelt down across from him. "What is it?"

Sherlock glanced up at him and then over at the wife before looking back at John, lowering his voice to almost a whisper. "There's nothing."

"Sorry?" asked John quietly.

"There's nothing there," Sherlock told him. "I don't feel her sorrow."

"What does that mean?" asked John.

"She isn't sad," Sherlock told him, a smirk appearing on his face. "She's…satisfied. Happy, almost."

"So, she did this?" asked John.

"Definitely," said Sherlock.

"How are you going to prove it to them?" asked John.

Sherlock frowned at him. "Give me some credit, John." He abruptly stood and faced Lestrade. "The wife killed him."

"What?" asked Lestrade as the wife shot her gaze over to Sherlock.

"The cuts in the shirt were made by a single-bladed mezzaluna," Sherlock told them. "It's a unique kitchen utensil, used to chop herbs and usually only owned by professional chefs. Considering the wife's predilection for cooking, she would most likely own one of these knives."

"And how did you come up with that one?" asked Anderson in annoyance.

"The length of the lacerations," Sherlock told them, gesturing to the bloody shirt. "That, and the fact that the spread of blood around the middle of the cuts is wider than at the ends. This speaks of the shape of the knife: the center is deeper than the sides, suggesting that it is a curved blade."

"And why would it be the wife?" asked Donovan in irritation. "Someone could have broken in and grabbed it."

"Then why is there blood on the proximal interphalangeal joint on the little finger of her right hand?" Sherlock pointed out.

Everyone looked round to the wife as she attempted to hide her hand behind her back. The officer next to her forced her hand out of hiding, showing them the blood on the outside of her little finger near the first finger joint.

"The two handles of the mezzaluna would have placed the ulnar side of the hand against the body, thus coating that side in blood," said Sherlock.

Donovan shook her head as an officer hauled the wife to her feet and cuffed her. "Oh, yeah? If the wife killed him, where's the body?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he turned away from the infuriating sergeant.

"Anyone could have done this," said Anderson. "Just because she has some blood on her hands? She's the one who found the shirt!"

Sherlock's jaw clenched at the anger and disgust he was getting from the two Yarders. Why couldn't they just leave him be for once?

" _Ahem."_

Sherlock's eyes jerked up towards John, who was rubbing absentmindedly at the front of his shirt. John's eyes caught his for a brief moment before glancing away again. Sherlock inhaled and then exhaled, calming himself as he focused. He gave his mind a gentle push, and the excess frustration and irritation vanished. Sherlock, for possibly the first time ever, was able to breathe freely in the presence of Donovan and Anderson.

John, on the other hand, tried to hold in his gasp at the flood of negativity that rushed through him.

"Why are you always so quick to blame the ones closest to the victim?" demanded Donovan.

John's jaw clenched as the anger he was feeling built and built.

"Her husband was just kidnapped, possibly killed," Donovan threw at Sherlock.

The tension was coiling inside him like a snake, ready to strike at the slightest provocation.

"Exactly!" said Anderson. "And here you are accusing her of murder! You really are a freak."

John suddenly turned to the two of them, fists clenched in anger. "You know, I am sick and tired of the two of you coming down on him!"

Sherlock couldn't help but smirk at the shocked looks on everyone's faces, especially Donovan, Anderson and Lestrade.

"Just because he's smarter than you, you have to put him down?" John almost yelled at them, gaze hard and fierce as he advanced. "You are really that jealous?"

Amid her shock, Donovan scoffed indignantly.

"Yeah, I said jealous, and you know you are," John bit off. "Do you have any idea how much damage you really do?"

Sherlock's eyes shot over to John. The emotions were getting to his head, and it was affecting that filter between his brain and his mouth. He had never been exposed to the two officers' feelings before. Perhaps they needed more practice before doing this again.

Sherlock instantly relaxed, letting his gift reemerge within himself. John's tension disappeared in an instant, still upset at Donovan and Anderson but not overly so. Sherlock smirked in delight, as all he felt from the two of them was surprise. It was a nice change of pace.

John cleared his throat and crossed his arms defiantly. "Now, if you don't mind, my colleague would like to finish." He then stepped aside to turn the floor over to Sherlock.

Sherlock smirked as he gave John a grateful look and then looked over at Lestrade. "The husband is buried in the rose garden in the backyard. I won't bore you with the details." He then turned and headed out of the house.

John turned and followed him, not paying the authorities any mind. He caught up to Sherlock, and the two of them headed down the street towards where they could catch a cab.

"Well, that was interesting," said Sherlock with a genuine smile.

"Did I really call them stupid?" said John in disbelief.

"I think you did," smirked Sherlock.

"Think I'll ever be able to show my face again?" asked John with a slight smile himself.

"Why not?" said Sherlock. "It wasn't that far-fetched that you would defend a friend."

"But I did yell at a police official," John pointed out.

"I think their boss will pardon you," said Sherlock.

"I think we need more practice," said John.

"My thoughts exactly," said Sherlock, smiling over at John. "Thank you, by the way. That was a relief."

"No problem," said John. "I think they needed a good talking to anyway."

"Doubt it'll do any good," muttered Sherlock.

John shrugged. "You never know."

Sherlock glanced over at John before shoving his hands into his coat's pockets. "Thai?"

"Perfect," John replied.

"My treat," said Sherlock.

John scoffed. "Yeah, it's always a treat when the owner owes you."

"Not this time," Sherlock told him. "It's a new place. Haven't met the owner."

John raised his brows as he looked over at Sherlock. "Well, then, lead the way."

The two friends continued down the streets of London, John eagerly listening to Sherlock's deductions of the people around them based solely on the emotions he was picking up. Sure, they would need more practice before trying anything like that again, but it was a nice feeling knowing that they could rely on each other to do so.

* * *

 **The end!**


	5. Chapter 5

Sorry if you were expecting a chapter with this update. I just forgot to mark it complete.


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